


Catbread Behind Bars

by der_tanzer



Series: Catbread [7]
Category: Riptide (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-20
Updated: 2010-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-09 15:00:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/der_tanzer/pseuds/der_tanzer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he'd ever given it any thought, Murray would have guessed that dating a cop would keep him from getting arrested.  He would have been wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catbread Behind Bars

**Author's Note:**

> Consensual bondage, possibly outside the strictest definition of 'safe', as normally portrayed. But no one gets hurt, and a good time is had by all.  
> 

If he'd ever given it any thought, Murray would have guessed that dating a cop would keep him from getting arrested. He would have been wrong. But, in all fairness, the patrol officer who took him in had no way of knowing about his relationship with the lieutenant, and Murray didn't bring it up.

The cop had him dead to rights, really. He _did_ run the stop sign, and the tags on the Jimmy _were_ out of date, although that wasn't his fault. Or maybe it was. The guys were used to him taking care of those things for them, but he'd been distracted lately. He was sure he'd put the form on the salon table for Cody's signature, but he didn't check to make sure it actually got signed and mailed. So, in spite of his protests, he really didn't have a leg to stand on.

The real problem wasn't the arrest, though. It was the fact that it was a Sunday evening and he wouldn't be able to get out until tomorrow. Bail couldn't be set until he was arraigned, and that didn't happen on Sundays. He'd been arrested enough times to know that much. But he'd never been locked up alone. Always before, Nick and Cody had been with him, protecting him from the truly frightening people one often encountered in jail cells. This time, though, they were at home and he was on his own. Even Quinlan couldn't help him. It was his day off and he was expecting Murray for supper, even as Murray was being photographed and fingerprinted at the station.

But there was one small hope. The officer told him he could have one phone call before he was put in the cell, and Murray knew the number by heart.

"Lieutenant, I'm in trouble," he said by way of greeting.

"You'd better not be pregnant, Bozinsky," was the bored reply.

"No, I'm in jail."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" he snapped, all trace of boredom suddenly gone.

"I'm in _jail_. It's just a traffic thing, but I guess I'm in for the night. Is—is there anything you can do?"

"Yeah, I'll try. Are your buddies with you?"

"No. Can you tell them? I only get one call."

Quinlan was absurdly pleased that he'd used his one phone call on him, even though it was the reasonable thing to do. And maybe he couldn't get Murray out, but he'd do something. At the very least, the kid shouldn't be there with no one looking after him. Sundays were bad in the city jail, with all the Friday and Saturday night drunks, sobered up and pissed off, biding their time until something interesting happened. Something like a skinny little geek who talked too much and had a nice ass.

"I'll give them a call. And you," he said firmly, "keep your back to the wall and your mouth shut, understand? This is not the time for you to be complaining about conditions or trying to make friends."

"I understand, Lieutenant," Murray said, swallowing hard. He'd been unhappy before, but now he was actually scared.

"All right, that's it," the processing officer said suddenly. "Time's up."

"Who's that?" Quinlan asked, prepared to remember.

"Christianson. He's the one that brought me in. Please hurry," he added as the officer took the phone away.

"Nothing your friend can do until tomorrow, buddy," Christianson said smugly.

"You don't know my friend," Murray said, trying to sound brave. "Oh, wait, yes you do."

"I do? Buddy, you and me don't have any friends in common."

"No, we probably don't. But we still know some of the same people."

He remained confident until he actually saw the cell where they intended to put him. There were seven other men in it already, but it was still less crowded than the other. There were only two bunks and the biggest men had already claimed them, leaving the others to sit on the floor or lean against the bars.

"Hey, look at this," one of the leaners said happily. "They brought us a new chew toy."

Murray drew back and found the hand on his arm implacable. Christianson took off the cuffs, unlocked the door, and shoved him in. He stumbled over his own feet, and the man who had called him a chew toy caught him. Murray knew then that it was going to be very bad. Normally they just let him fall.

"Hey, I know you," said one of the big guys on the bunks. "You're one of those private dicks my wife hired last year. You broke up my marriage."

"Really?" he squeaked. "I'm very sorry to hear that. But I think it was more likely your drinking and—and philandering that ended your marriage, even if we did happen to be the ones to—to provide…" Looking at the hostile eyes staring at him, he remembered that Quinlan had told him not to talk and wished he could go out and start over. They were probably all drunken philanderers, and now that he looked more closely, he found he recognized a few of them. The man who had stopped his fall was still holding him up, but at a signal from the big guy on the bunk, he threw Murray back against the bars and pinned him with a hand in the middle of his chest.

"Hey, no roughhousing in there," Christianson said lightly and left the room. Murray was horrified to realize that they were alone, that the cops would just walk out and leave two cells full of criminals unsupervised, even if they had been stripped of weapons and valuables. There was probably some kind of equilibrium maintained by the relative viciousness of each man, he mused. Probably no one started trouble because they were all equally dangerous. But a potential victim such as himself could easily upset the entire balance. It was fascinating and he thought he might have to make a study of the subject, but he didn't get any further because the man who had him pinned was starting to lean in.

"You're cute, you know that? Pretty, like a girl."

"Maybe he is a girl," the big guy said, getting up from his bunk. "What about that, dick? Are you a girl?"

"I—I'm Murray Bozinsky," he said, not knowing how else to answer. Quinlan had told him to say nothing, but he'd dealt with bullies all his life. Keeping quiet just made them escalate until they got a response. He'd had more luck with talking until they timed out, which he prayed would happen when Quinlan got there.

"Yeah, Bozinsky, the private dick. My old lady said you tracked down my girlfriends with your computers or some such shit."

"Oh. Well, yes. It was very easy, you see. All I had to do was—was…" All of a sudden, telling this man that he'd hacked his credit card statements seemed like a very bad idea, but he didn't know where else to go with this. The man pinning him solved the problem by knocking his head against the bars.

"Yeah, that's where I know this asshole from," someone else said, getting up from the floor. "My kid's a computer junkie. He's got a bunch of magazines with this guy in 'em. You build computers or something, don't you?"

"Well, yes, I—that is, I design software, mostly—games and—uh—databases. But I do a little inventing, too. Microprocessors and surveillance equipment…" Their faces told him he'd said the wrong thing again and he tried to figure out what it was. Oh, right. Surveillance. Criminals never liked to hear that word.

"Man, I'm gonna love fucking this guy up," someone else said. "Almost makes getting arrested worthwhile."

"No shit," the big man said. "But we still haven't decided if he _is_ a guy. We'd better start with that."

He put his hand on Murray's thigh almost gently, running it slowly up to his crotch. Murray shivered and flinched away as the big hand gripped him, but that only made the man squeeze harder. He groaned painfully and everyone laughed.

"Well, what do you got?" one of the observers called.

"Oh, he's no girl. Pretty nice, too. We're gonna have a good night after all."

There were whistles and catcalls from the other cell, and Murray took a moment to be grateful that at least those men couldn't reach him. But they could. The two cells were only separated by a common wall of bars. The possible horrors began to add up in his mind, and for the first time in his life, he wished he wasn't so good at math.

"Let me have him," the big man said, pulling him away from the guy who'd held him ever since Christianson threw him into the cell. He dragged Murray over to his bunk and threw him face down on the dirty mattress. The big hand stroked his back and Murray wished he still had his pocket protector. He'd never been one for violence, especially not the hands-on kind, but he thought he could put a pen through every single eyeball in here, if he had to. Then he heard the outer door crash open and his heart rose with hope.

"Hey!" shouted a gruff but much beloved voice. "Hey, I'm talking to you animals. Back the fuck up right now!"

There was a rapid shuffle of bodies and the hands disappeared. Murray struggled upright and looked around to see Quinlan actually pointing a gun into the cell from about three feet back. Far enough that no inmate could grab it, but close enough to leave no doubt that he could hit any target he chose. The big man was suddenly the farthest away, a coward to the last.

"Christianson, get that cell open."

The patrol cop looked as scared as everyone in the cell, except Murray, whose expression could only be described as vindicated. Christianson unlocked the door and stood well out of the way of Quinlan's pistol.

"Bozinsky, get out here."

He stood and left the cell with a backward smile at the cluster of inmates. No one moved, and Christianson closed the door again. Only when it was locked did Quinlan holster his gun.

"What the fuck were you thinking, putting this kid in there? He's a goddamned computer scientist, not a bar brawler."

"What could I do, sir? The jail's full, and anyway, we can't give preferential treatment."

"For a stop sign and expired tags, you could have written him a ticket and sent him on his way."

"I'll remember that next time, Lieutenant. But he's been booked now; I can't just let him go."

"Yeah, well, he's not going to pay for your mistake. We'll have to put him in isolation."

"If you're moving the prisoner, you'll have to cuff him," Christianson said, the only victory he could pull out of this mess.

"Don't you lecture me on policy, you wet-behind-the-ears radio-car jockey. I was walking a beat when you were in grade school. And this isn't over, either. You can expect a full review by IA first thing tomorrow morning, and you'll be damned lucky to have a job in the afternoon." He was pulling out his cuffs as he spoke, fastening them loosely around Murray's bony wrists, joining his hands in front where it was more comfortable. Gripping his elbow, Quinlan led him from the room, leaving Christianson and seventeen bar brawlers staring after them.

"I guess he _is_ famous," one of the prisoners said, and Christianson paled. This was not going to help his chances of promotion.

"Are you okay, kid?" Quinlan asked once they were in the hall. "I got here as fast as I could."

"Yes, I—I'm fine. They were still just making threats."

"That's not what it looked like."

"I'm fine," he said again. He loved the lieutenant, but he wasn't going to admit how scared he'd been, being fondled by that stinking stranger. "So, what's isolation?"

"What it sounds like. Brick walls, one man to a cell. We don't arrest a lot of women, but that's where we keep 'em when we do. Should be one empty, at least."

"Oh. Thank you, Lieutenant. I know you're bending the rules for me and I really appreciate it."

"I'm not really," he said, bypassing the elevator for the stairs. It was three flights down, but the longer he could keep Murray out of a cell, the better he liked it. "That's what isolation's for. Girls and celebrities and defenseless little geeks. Now, I will admit that maybe I shouldn't have pulled my gun back there, but you were about to get your asshole stretched and I happen to like it the way it is."

"You're such a romantic," Murray smiled.

"Yeah, well, Christianson isn't gonna think so tomorrow. He had no business bringing you in on a bullshit traffic stop. Especially when he knew the jail was full."

"Well, that might have been my fault, too. I remember now, we helped his ex-wife with their divorce, too. He was squirreling money away in his girlfriend's name and I tracked it down for her. I'd forgotten him, but I guess he remembered me."

"Vengeance is no excuse." Quinlan unlocked a door at the bottom of the stairwell and led him into a dark basement hall. Two doors down was a room where three isolation cells stood among boxes and old file cabinets. Murray could see that it was more a storeroom than anything else, and the idea comforted him. After the events upstairs, he wanted to be alone.

"What about Christianson?" he asked as Quinlan took off the cuffs. "If he's already in trouble, what's to stop him coming down here and messing with me? Maybe trying to get me to change me story about those guys in holding?"

"What's to stop him?" Quinlan repeated, laughing harshly. "Me, Bozinsky. You think I'm gonna leave you here alone after all that?"

"Really? I—I'm touched."

"Don't get all worked up, kid. I was planning on spending the night with you anyway. We'll send out for pizza, maybe play some cards. It won't be fun, but it won't exactly be jail, either."

That was when Murray noticed that the cell door was still open. Apparently he was on the honor system here and that suited him just fine.

"Is it going to bother anyone that you're here on your day off?"

"You mean besides Christianson? No. I'm not putting in for overtime, you know." He sank down on the bunk and Murray sat beside him, a little closer than he otherwise might have. Quinlan thought about what he'd seen upstairs and got angry all over again. But instead of saying anything, he put his arm around Murray and kissed his temple.

"Careful, Lieutenant. You don't want to get caught fraternizing with the prisoners."

"The hall door is locked, and you can't see in here from the window. We'll have plenty of warning if anyone wants in. But no one's going to. The guards upstairs will leave us alone until midnight rounds, and maybe even then."

"My, my," he said, carefully arching one eyebrow. "You _do_ think of everything."

"Stop being such a goofball," Quinlan said fondly.

"You love that I'm a goofball. Hey, speaking of goofs, did you call the guys? I'm going to need them to bail me out in the morning."

"No you're not. I'll get the charges dropped at your arraignment. And I didn't have time to call them before I came down, but it's not like they'll miss you right away."

"I guess not. Anyway, they know you're looking after me, wherever I am."

***

The captain came down when he heard that Quinlan had moved a prisoner on his own authority, but after he heard why, and who that prisoner was, he agreed that isolation was probably for the best. And if Quinlan wanted to guard said prisoner on his own time, he didn't have a problem with that. The mild little scientist wasn't much of an escape risk, and while Quinlan seemed to like him better than he used to, he wasn't likely to blow his career helping him break out.

When the captain had gone, Quinlan left for a few minutes to call Nick and order a pizza. He came back with a deck of cards, left in his car from some long ago poker night, and handed them to Murray.

"Poker," Murray told him as he shuffled, "is a game of mathematical skill. Unlike Go Fish, which is a game of luck."

"And what's Hearts?" Quinlan asked. "Besides the official card game of jails nationwide?"

"A waste of time. I played in college, until no one would play with me anymore."

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"Because I could shoot the moon on any hand, so long as the other players weren't working together. And sometimes if they were. Hearts is more psychology that math."

"You'll have to explain that one to me sometime."

"Get us two more players and I'll _show_ you. But tonight, I'll just give you a lesson in five card stud."

"Right. You're gonna give me lessons in poker. If you had any money, I'd bleed you dry."

"Get some matches or toothpicks or something and we'll see who knows how to play."

Quinlan found a box of wooden matches in the desk out by the door and divided them in the middle of the bunk. Murray took off his shoes and got comfortable, long legs tucked up under him, elbows on his knees, and dealt the cards. Quinlan pulled one foot up on the bed, rested his chin on his knee, and tried not to show on his face how good his hole cards were. But Murray knew him too well, in spite of the unconsciously juvenile posture, and read _ace_ in his eyes. He broke his full house, gambled for a straight, and won.

"Beginner's luck, kid," Quinlan said, shuffling the cards.

"Whatever you say," Murray shrugged. He checked the hole and asked for two, filling a flush. By ten o'clock, he had all the matches and Quinlan was sure he was cheating.

"I still don't think you can shoot the moon on every hand," he said petulantly, putting the cards away. The lights would go out in the cells at five after ten, and if he used the override switch, he'd have to explain why. Poker wouldn't fly as an excuse.

"It's psychology," Murray said again. "Are you going to lock me in here now? I didn't think you were that sore a loser."

"No, I'm not locking you in. Just have to put the matches back. Can't have the next prisoner in there setting the place on fire. So, explain your psycho-babble already." He came back and closed the door, still not locking it.

"Oh, it's very simple. It's just a matter of collecting all the hearts you can on the trade and then throwing out low cards first. Or throwing all your hearts and capturing them back on cross suits. People don't expect you to go for it if they're holding the ace or the king themselves, so they're easy to get back. You collect spades, for example, and then when you play them, your opponents dump hearts on you, thinking they're being clever. I like to go back and forth, taking all the hearts on some hands and none on the others, although that isn't moon shooting. The best way to take none is to dump a whole suit in the trade, and then throw hearts whenever the others play that suit. You can't do it if you play with the same people all the time, unless they're stupid, but if you keep mixing it up, you can't lose."

"Kid, you must be smoking something funny, because that would never work in a million years."

"Oh, but it does. You'll have to come over and play with us sometime. Nick and Cody would love to see me proven wrong. They've never beaten me, even when they team up. They can keep me from shooting the moon sometimes, but they can't make me take hearts if I don't want to."

"Normally I wouldn't side with those two, but you're gettin' a little too smug for your own good."

"Who, me? No, I'm not smug. Just honest."

"Now that was smug."

"Lieutenant, four hours ago I was on the verge of—becoming _intimate_—with a number of extremely unpleasant strangers in an overcrowded holding cell. Which you, by the way, have the unquestionable authority to put me back into. I assure you, smug is the last thing I am right now."

"Yeah? Then what are you? Besides honest."

"Grateful, I guess. Very, very grateful. And a little turned on. I love that you came to my rescue like that."

"You don't have any business being in jail," Quinlan said dismissively. "That jerk-off Christianson's just trying to bump his arrest rates so he can get a promotion."

"Maybe so, but you still got here in, what, five minutes? You must have run every light in town."

"Most of 'em. I know what Sunday nights are like in here. That's why I don't work weekends."

"No, you just volunteer."

"That's right." Quinlan bent and kissed him as the lights went out. "I'm glad to hear you're grateful. But I'm wondering how much."

"Probably enough. Is there something special I can do for you?"

"You can make a certain fantasy of mine come true."

"Really? Boss." He didn't even have to ask what the fantasy was to know that he wanted to do it. Even when he found himself stripped naked and cuffed to the now locked cell door, which wasn't far from what he'd expected, he was sure it would be good.

The chain of the cuffs was looped over the highest horizontal bar that he could comfortably reach, stretching his slim body full length and exposing him in a way he'd never really experienced before. The security light in the main room cast weird shadows across the door but didn't penetrate the darkness of the cell. Murray could see his own pale skin and Quinlan's darker silhouette, but he couldn't read the subtleties of expression or posture. Then his glasses were removed and the silhouette blurred into shadow. For a moment that didn't bother him, but when the other man stepped away, doubts began to creep in. He twisted sideways against the bars, the cuffs biting dully into his wrists, sudden panic rising in his chest.

"Lieutenant?" he whispered, and was rewarded by a hand on his hip. The silence grew and Murray almost spoke again. Then his lover's mouth was on his throat, kissing so softly that he shivered. Soft and softer, across his throat, nibbling the tendons, tasting the salt of his skin, licking the hollows of his collarbones. One finger tickled down his ribs and he tried to jerk away, the cuffs pulling him up with a sharp rattle.

"No, don't," he gasped out, then bit his tongue to keep from saying it again. The finger tickled back up, making him flinch away with a strangled sob. It was good and he loved it and it was terrible, too. As wonderful and torturous as the cuffs themselves.

The tickling went on, and just when he didn't think he could stand it for one more second, it suddenly stopped. The finger was replaced by the palm of the hand, soothing away the tickle, and then a quick swipe of the tongue that set his nerve endings on fire. He sagged against the bars, pulling mindlessly on the cuffs, needing to touch the body that was so temptingly close. He could feel the heat radiating off of it, but the one hand wasn't enough. Even the tongue wasn't, although he thought it had potential.

Quinlan moved away again, lost in the shadows, and Murray let his head fall back in frustration. He heard a soft rustle of clothing and hoped it indicated progress. His skin felt too tight, tingling and hot, and even in his uncertainty, his cock was painfully hard. It was all he could do not to turn and rub it against the bars, which were too cool and smooth to do any good, anyway. The cell was silent, and were he not chained to the door, he would have thought the other man had left.

He groaned softly, and Quinlan was there again with a suddenness that shocked him, as if that hadn't been exactly what he wanted. The heavier body pressed against him, all bare skin and working muscle, and Murray twisted so his back was up against the bars, gasping soft thanks for the hands on his hips and the mouth on his nipple. His fingers wrapped around the chain, the only thing he could properly reach, trying to find slack that would let him get closer to the warm body. But the chain was short and there was no relief in it. Quinlan bit him gently, tugging his pointed nipple, teasing it with his tongue as Murray groaned and the chain rattled overhead.

"What would I have to say," he asked suddenly, "to make you let me go?"

For a second there was no response, and fear battled lust in his heart. Then Quinlan was kissing his jaw, caressing his cheek, whispering in his ear.

"Say _let me go_. Or just _stop_. You won't say it if you don't mean it."

"I won't," he agreed, knowing he would have agreed to anything just then. But he also knew that he was safe. Quinlan always understood him, even in the dark.

He proved it once more by kneeling and kissing Murray's thigh, stroking up and down the backs of his legs until he trembled. His cheek brushed Murray's cock, and Murray writhed against his restraints, thrusting blindly toward him. For a second (but seconds were so long when he was blind in the dark), he met only air, and then that warm, friendly mouth was enveloping him. His first feeling was one of utter relief, so great that his knees went weak and he just hung for a moment, gripping his chain and thanking God that he wasn't going to be tortured any more. But the strong suction and skillful tongue soon turned his relief to fear that it would be over too soon. He tried to distract himself, tried not to feel so much, but the alternatives were limited. Even the metal cuffs and the cold bars behind his back excited him in a new way, making him understand at last why people did this.

He was struggling now, turned on by the restraint and only half-wanting to escape. Then Quinlan was holding him still, gripping his hips, pushing him against the cell door, and he tried to turn his thoughts inward. Prime numbers, square roots, sine and co-sine… (deep swallowing action, tightening throat muscles around the head of his cock, a twist of tongue down the length of his shaft)…he screamed suddenly, unable to hold it back, with nothing to muffle the sound. Quinlan took him deeper, swallowing hard, and Murray came, still screaming, pulsing against the back of his throat.

His body went limp and he hung there, gasping for breath on the verge of tears, completely undone. Quinlan sucked him for a few seconds longer, teasing out a few final shudders, then rose, pressing him against the door and taking some of his weight.

"You okay, kid?" he whispered.

"Y—yes. God, yes."

"You don't want to stop?"

"No. Please, what's next?"

Quinlan laughed a little, pleased and unbelievably aroused by the breathless enthusiasm. He kissed Murray softly, biting his lips, nipping his jaw, making him moan anew. When he stepped back, Murray sagged in his chains again, unable to stand up against the ebb and flow of adrenaline. Long seconds passed in which he felt alone in the world again, lost and adrift in cold and darkness, and then the heat returned. Strong hands turned him and he grabbed hold of the bars, bracing himself with his elbows to take the strain off his wrists. He thought he knew what was coming and it filled him with equal parts anxiety and excitement. The adrenaline was rushing again, but he was wondering about how it would play out.

Then Quinlan was kissing his back, tickling his ribs again, all the more torturous because he was so much weaker now. He jerked away, slamming his body into the bars, and kicked out with one foot. Quinlan stepped back again, leaving him bereft, and he changed his mind in an instant.

"No, come back," he pleaded. "I'm sorry, come back. Whatever you want, I don't care, just touch me. Please, touch me so I know you're there."

"Shh," Quinlan whispered. There was another rustle of fabric, the tearing of foil, the snap of latex, and then those loving, teasing hands were on him. He made himself stand still when the fingernails tickled down his ribs, but couldn't control the quiver of his flesh. He wanted to beat himself senseless against the bars, wanted to kick and scream, wanted most of all to tear himself loose and hold that warm, loved body close, as protection from the dark. But he just stood there and trembled, gasping at the tickle and the biting kisses on his back.

Then, one last time, the warmth left him. Murray tried to turn around but he moved the wrong way and the chain wouldn't give that far. He cried out, begging unashamedly, on the edge of the kind of panic that might actually get him hurt, and then his lover was with him once more. The heel of his left hand pressed into the middle of Murray's back, between his shoulder blades where he always seemed to be tense, and then ran firmly down his spine. He cupped Murray's ass for a second, his fingers cool and slick, and then pressed gently into him, gripping Murray's stiffening cock in his other hand.

"I knew you'd have one more in you," he whispered, stroking the tender gland as Murray panted and writhed.

"Please," he said, not a question anymore. "Please, I need…"

"You need what?" Still stroking him with both hands, inside and out, making him tremble like a leaf in a storm. "You need to get down? Or you need me to fuck you until you cry?"

"The—the second one," he gasped out, gripping the bars so his knuckles glowed white. "Please, Lieutenant. I—I need you."

He felt the other man move around behind him without breaking his rhythm and leaned into the bars in relief. Suddenly he wanted it to be over. He didn't want to stop in the middle, he just wanted it to be finished. To come and feel his lover come, and lie down with him to sleep. Then the thick cock was pushing into him and he never wanted it to end.

Quinlan held his hip with one hand, steadying him when he wavered, and took him slowly, with great care. His other hand cradled Murray's sac, slid down the inside of his thigh and up the length of his shaft, firm and gentle in that way that was only for him. Murray braced his feet and thrust back, groaning at the sharp nudge against his prostate. He wanted to bend more, but there wasn't enough give in the cuffs and that mild discomfort made it suddenly more exciting. More urgent, as he tried to get just the right angle, grunting softly with effort. Quinlan knew what he wanted and moved with him, releasing his hip to grab one of the bars for leverage. Murray cried out sharply, bucking hard, and dissolved into quiet whimpers as the heavy cock stuttered across his gland.

"That's good, kid," Quinlan murmured against his back. "That's so fucking good. You like it? Is that what you wanted?"

"Yes," he groaned, inflamed by the sound of that gruff, demanding voice. "God, yes—I—I _need_…harder. Please, harder. Please…" His words were cut off by a rough, jolting thrust, the hand on his cock tightening, pumping harder. Tiny stars strobed behind his eyes and he screamed as he came, less copiously than before, but more powerfully, shaken to his very core. His cries were the last thing Quinlan needed to complete the experience and he wouldn't have silenced them if he could have. He bit into Murray's shoulder, bruising flesh and drawing a drop of blood as he shot deep inside him. The pulse of his orgasm seemed to last forever and Murray rocked with him, milking him thoroughly, reveling in his muffled growls of possessive love.

When Quinlan withdrew, Murray felt that sudden emptiness, the loneliness of being stranded in the dark, and was ashamed to hear himself whimper again. He heard the snap of latex again, and then Quinlan was back, unlocking the cuffs and supporting him with an arm around his waist.

"You okay, kid? Can you walk?"

"Yeah, in—in just a second." He was breathing hard, his arms tight around the sturdy shoulders, and after a moment he took a hesitant step. Quinlan led him over to the bunk and laid him down.

"Be still a minute," he said and went to wet a towel to clean him up with. Murray tried to focus on his breathing, getting a grip on himself before Quinlan touched him again. He thought just the feel of those hands might make him come again, if he could, or maybe kill him if he couldn't, and he was too tired for either.

"Where did you get the lube?" he asked when the other man came back. Conversation seemed to be the best way to get back to normal, and he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Had it in the car, from that time we went up the coast. Rubbers, too. Got 'em when I went out to get the cards."

"You must have really been counting on my gratitude," he laughed, shivering suddenly when Quinlan began to bathe him with the towel.

"I was going to bet you a fantasy over cards. But you started winning, so I didn't."

"You don't want to know my fantasies?"

"I want to know 'em before I agree to any."

"Well, this was the one I would have chosen, given the circumstances."

"Yeah?"

"Sure. Being in jail lends itself to handcuffs, doesn't it? And my favorite fantasy is that sound you make right before you come. That wolf growl. I love that."

"You're really something," he said, shaking his head in the dark. "You want your clothes?"

"Um—my shorts, if you can find them. Is someone going to check on us?"

"The sergeant might come down later. He's supposed to, anyway. You ought to be asleep when he does."

"Okay." He took his boxers from Quinlan and pulled them on without getting up. There was a thin blanket at the foot of the bed and he covered himself while the other man dressed. Murray could sleep in his underwear in jail, but there was no excuse for his guard to have so much as a shoe untied.

Quinlan didn't look much like a guard, though, lying beside his prisoner, holding him and tenderly rubbing his bruised wrists. Murray was still shivering a little with reaction and the friendly warmth of Quinlan's body soothed him. He thought he might be able to sleep soon, but he was a little worried about getting caught by the hypothetical sergeant, who might or might not come to check on them. He wondered if it was more than luck that no one had heard him scream.

"Lieutenant, can I ask you something?"

"If I said no, would that stop you?"

"Maybe. Are you saying no?"

"No, I'm not. What do you want to ask?"

"This fantasy of yours—is it new? Have you ever done it before?"

"Done what? Cuffed a prisoner and fucked him while he was helpless?" he asked mildly, still massaging Murray's wrists. "No, I've never done that."

"Well, I didn't mean a prisoner exactly. But someone you were already fucking would be different."

"That's true, but I never did. Never really wanted to, until—oh, it musta been about the first time I saw you." There was a lot more to it than that, all the times he'd arrested the three of them and wished he could take the skinny kid while his friends watched, and the times he wished he could lock him up alone and spend a whole night doing as he pleased, not unlike this. But Murray didn't need to hear those things. Whatever his first thoughts had been, it was more than sex now, and that was what mattered.

"So you've been waiting all this time just to chain me to a wall?" Murray asked, the smile showing in his voice.

"Been waiting for a lot of things. Didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No. No, not at all. It was wonderful."

"I doubt you'll be saying that tomorrow, when your wrists are done swelling."

"It was worth it. Anyway, I can say the welts are from Christianson cuffing me. He did tighten them up pretty good."

"Did he," Quinlan said thoughtfully, not making it a question. "That guy's asking for trouble all over the place."

"You're not seriously going to have him investigated, are you?"

"You better believe I am. There's protocol for shit like that and he knows it. The fine for a stop sign and bad tags is a hundred and twenty bucks. The only reason he brought you in was the divorce thing, and that's blatant abuse of authority. And even if you did need arresting, he shouldn't have put you in that cell. He knows what isolation's for."

"What if people start to suspect why you're playing favorites? Isn't it dangerous for you to make a big thing out of this?"

"I don't much care, kid. No one would believe the truth, and I'd bet these guys are all too scared to even suggest it where I can hear."

"Do they think you're a homophobe?"

"Beats me. They don't speculate on my private life, so far as I know. The first time I hear someone start, I'll shut 'em up in a hurry, no matter what direction it goes."

"Oh. That's good," he said, trying not to yawn. Suddenly he was very tired.

"You go on and sleep," Quinlan murmured, laying Murray's hands down and hugging him close.

"What about the sergeant?"

"I'll watch for him. If I get up, you stay still and pretend to be asleep, if you're not already."

"Okay. Thanks, Lieutenant. For everything."

"It's okay. Just get some sleep."

***

A little past midnight, Quinlan heard keys in the basement door and slipped out of bed. He unlocked the cell and then stood there, watching the bunk as the sergeant came in.

"Is that you, Markus?" he called quietly.

"Lieutenant Quinlan? What are you doing in there?"

"Kid had a stomach ache. I gave him some antacids and thought I'd hang around to see how he did."

"Aren't you worried about him escaping?" Sergeant Markus asked, half joking, as he turned on the light outside the cell.

"No. He's a pretty law-abiding guy in general; just got caught in Christianson's little revenge trap. Anyway, he's a friend. He wouldn't screw me over by escaping on my watch."

"A friend, huh? Yeah, he's the PI, isn't he? The computer guy. I've seen you two around, having lunch and shit."

"Yeah, that's right."

"Man, I do _not_ envy Christianson," he laughed. Most cops made it a policy not to cross Quinlan, and locking up what was maybe his only friend was a world class faux pas, no matter what the reason. "Well, it looks like you've got this under control. I'll see you later, Lieutenant."

"'Night, Markus," he said, and the sergeant turned off the light and left. Quinlan waited a moment, then checked to make sure the door was locked.

"Wow, you called me a friend," Murray said from the darkness of the cell.

"Shut up, Bozinsky. You're supposed to be asleep."

"I'm _supposed_ to be asleep in your bed, so let's not get too picky."

Quinlan went back into the cell and lay down beside him again, threatening to tickle him if he didn't behave.

"You can't tickle me now, Lieutenant," he said confidently. "I can get away."

"Not if I cuff you to the bed. Is that what you want?"

"Not tonight. Maybe after my wrists heal, though."

Quinlan took his hand and kissed the bony joint softly.

"Sorry about that, kid. I didn't expect you to struggle so much. Should have used something with more give in it."

"No, no," he said hurriedly. "Anything other than real handcuffs wouldn't have been the same. It was an authentic jail experience. I wouldn't have struggled if it hadn't been, and if it didn't hurt a little, I'd have been disappointed. I guess you're supposed to be able to escape, too, but that doesn't sound like fun."

"You're a weird guy, Bozinsky."

"I know. But if you want to try it at home sometime, you can use something softer. So long as I can't get loose."

"I think you just guaranteed I won't get any more sleep tonight."

"Oh. Sorry." But he didn't sound sorry at all.

Quinlan pushed him down on his back and kissed him breathless, wishing all the while that he was younger, or at least better rested, so he could do more than that. But Murray was tired, too, and didn't object to going to sleep, so long as he had his lieutenant safely by his side.

***

Nick and Cody had been told not to come down for the arraignment, and it wasn't like they didn't trust Quinlan. He'd been good enough to call them, and they believed he would succeed in getting the charges dropped if Murray didn't start talking first, but they still showed up and stood in the back of the municipal courtroom. Quinlan and the public defender discussed it a moment, and then the defender made Murray's case for him; that the car wasn't his, that he didn't know about the tags, and that Officer Christianson had a personal motive for arresting him, unrelated to the law. Once Christianson admitted that Murray had helped his wife in their divorce, the charges were dismissed and Murray was released with a warning to watch for stop signs.

"You're going to drop the thing against him now, aren't you?" Murray asked Quinlan as they left the courtroom, his friends close behind.

"Not a chance. He still used his badge to settle a grudge," he said, just as if he'd never done the same. "And he knew he was risking your life in that holding cell. There was no excuse for that."

"What holding cell?" Nick asked, grabbing Murray's arm.

"Just the usual cell. We've all been in it before," he shrugged.

"It was full," Quinlan said tersely. "Bunch of bikers and rednecks who were tearing up the bars all weekend. Christianson threw Bozinsky in there, like he had a hope in hell of ever seeing daylight again, because he was pissed about his divorce."

"Jeez, Boz, are you okay?" Cody asked. "Did someone hurt you?"

"Yeah, what happened?" Nick asked before he could answer. "And what about your wrists? Who did that?"

"It's from the handcuffs. I shouldn't have tried to fight him," he said smoothly, none of it a lie. "And I'm fine, really. I wasn't in the holding cell long. The lieutenant came in and moved me down to isolation. Which reminds me, we need to get together and play Hearts sometime."

"Oh, God," Nick moaned. "Trust me, LT, you do not want to play cards with this guy."

"I don't know," Quinlan said, with a wink that only Murray saw. "He's a pretty good winner."


End file.
